


For God and Country

by rae1112



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bodyswap, M/M, The AU no one wanted but me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: England receives some unwanted divine intervention.Aziraphale turns from just enough of a bastard into a raging one.(Crossover between Axis Powers Hetalia and Good Omens. Good Omens is a book about an angel and a demon being useless at stopping an Apocalypse. Hetalia is a show about personified countries, so yes, the England receiving the divine intervention is an anthropomorphic England. Whose name is England, and occasionally, Arthur. Enjoy.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The crossover that literally no one will enjoy but me - I’m only writing it because nobody else will and I want to read it, damn it all. 
> 
> Also, I tried my best to reintroduce all the characters/settings/details so you don’t have to be familiar with either source material to understand this, but I may have failed spectacularly, so for that I ask you to forgive me. 
> 
> Dramatis Personae
> 
>  
> 
> **The Divine/Damned:**
> 
>  
> 
> Aziraphale (An Angel who makes a terrible Nation) 
> 
> Crowley (A Demon with a penchant for flora)
> 
> The Metatron (Voice of GOD; bit of a dick)
> 
> St. Peter (Guardian of Heaven’s Gates)
> 
> The Archangel Michael (The Warrior; kind of a tool)
> 
> The Archangel Gabriel (The Messenger; Aziraphale’s direct supervisor and all around tool)
> 
> The Archangel Raphael (The Healer; ...healing seems to be the extent of his personality)
> 
> The Archangel Uriel (The Angel of Presence; Aziraphale’s least favorite uncle)
> 
>  
> 
> **The Nations:**
> 
>  
> 
> England (A Nation who makes a terrible Angel) 
> 
> America (A Nation who should probably stop carrying a gun)
> 
> Hungary (A Nation with terrible bureaucracy) 
> 
> France (A Nation who hates England)
> 
> Scotland (A Nation who hates England)
> 
> Wales (A Nation who hates England)
> 
> Northern Ireland (A Nation who - oh, you get it) 
> 
>  
> 
> **The Closest Thing to Mortals You’re Gonna Get:**
> 
>  
> 
> ADAM (The Antichrist) 
> 
> Pepper (Badass)
> 
> Wensleydale (Cambridge Student)
> 
> Brian (Seems to exist) 
> 
> England’s boss (Plot device) 
> 
> Mrs. Jenkins (Realtor; vastly overestimates the appeal of ghouls)

2004

There were very many cottages throughout the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland that claimed the honorable title of “haunted”. They could be found all over the countryside, in all directions (though perhaps Scotland boasted the most eclectic collection of the charming buildings). Often, Britons sought out the reportedly supernatural living quarters on purpose, hoping for a discount, or at least, for a being who would be pleasant enough at tea-time and during election broadcasts. 

Therefore, the cottage on Merriweather Lane in South Downs, England was not particularly special. True, it was one of the few potentially spiritual cottages in south-east England, but it had nothing on the greats that were scattered around the Glasgow area. Instead it could only be described as frumpy - with a deteriorating roof, a broken fence, and some browning unruly weeds, the decaying cottage had certainly seen better days. Its only saving grace was the occasional ghostly moan that was emitted when conditions were _just_ right, but most potential homeowners still could not bring themselves to buy a home with such tacky tiling and bewildering flora. The de-facto owner, Mrs. Jenkins, had given the cottage up as a bad job and now merely did the minimum trimming required in the garden so that the neighbors would not file any more complaints. 

All of that changed, however, on a drizzling morning in 2004 when two men, fresh from London, arrived and politely knocked on Mrs. Jenkins’ door, inquiring after the availability of the shabby cottage. 

Mrs. Jenkins had been overjoyed - she did her best with the upkeep, but one could not indefinitely take care of an abandoned cottage in the South Downs, even if it was haunted. And the two gentleman seemed kindly enough. 

One of the men was no older than twenty-five, with black hair and good cheekbones. His skin was dark, marking him as someone of exotic origins. He was rather tall, having several inches on his companion, thin and very finely dressed in a black suit and snakeskin shoes. The oddest feature of the man were the dark sunglasses he wore, refusing to take them off even when Mrs. Jenkins invited the two inside. She forgave him for it - he seemed rather on edge, the poor dear, the scowl on his face looking rather more vulnerable than he probably wished it too. 

His sullenness was made up for by his companion ten times over. The other man was a jolly sort, rather plump, who looked at least a decade older than the first. He had dirty blonde curls and bright blue eyes hidden behind reading spectacles, which Mrs. Jenkins found quite charming. When he shook her hand, she could immediately tell that he visited a manicurist quite often, and she found she appreciated his efforts. He seemed sharp to Mrs. Jenkins, a traditional Brit, and likely one of the numerous gentlemen that had been quite happy when civil partnerships were legalised in the United Kingdom. 

He told her that his name was Mr. Ezra Fell, and she fawned over its biblical nature. The other young man had excused himself at that point in the conversation, coming back only when they had started talking of business.

To her great pleasure, the two did not even make a counter offer, or attempt to negotiate the price on the cottage after she had named it. Mr. Fell had merely smiled serenely, shook her hand, and took the paperwork from her to sign everything necessary. 

“Oh!” she said, right before he’d started initialing, “I should warn you, before this goes much further. There are some...eccentricities, associated with this particular cottage.”

Mr. Fell’s smile did not waver, and he tilted his head in curiosity. “Ah? What might those be, my dear?” 

Mrs. Jenkins blushed at his fond tone. “Yes, well. It might seem silly, to those coming from the city...and you two are so young, after all…” The younger man looked as if he was going to snort; Mr. Fell quickly gave him a warning glance. “But this town has quite a few mysteries behind it. Intrigues, of a sort.” 

“Sounds exciting,” Mr. Fell said positively. Mr. Jenkins beamed back at him.

“Yes, well, we like to think so,” she continued, “In any case, this cottage is special. Very old, I think, built at least two centuries ago.”

“My, my, that is old!” Mr. Fell exclaimed. His young man did snort this time. 

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “Indeed. It used to be a hideaway, for a rather wayward young Earl, and his, hm,” she took a cursory glance around the room, then eyed them meaningfully. “His gentleman _companion_.” 

Mr. Fell’s expression did not shift at all from its serene smile, and the other young man gave no indication he caught her meaning either.

She mentally shrugged. Surely they understood, given their own position. Perhaps they simply did not wish to advertise it. 

“The young earl and his companion lived there in the summers, as the legend goes,” she said, recalling the details of the story her mother had whispered to her and her giggling sister at bedtime, “They were quite happy together. But unfortunately, that was a different time.”

Now Mr. Fell looked rather troubled, having finally caught her gist. His young man, on the other hand, seemed intrigued. 

“They were hunted down, the poor dears. Killed in the cottage by their neighbors. Bloody aftermath, one of them had his head cleaved right off,” she shook her head. “It was a great tragedy.”

“That is, er, quite the history,” Mr. Fell said. 

“The bloodiest murder in this town’s history, I can tell you that,” Mrs. Jenkins said, looking at the blonde sympathetically, “Perfectly safe for that sort of thing _now_ , of course.” She eyed them meaningfully again, attempting to press her point home. Still, their answering stares were blank. Determined not to advertise it, then. 

“Well, erm, that wasn’t silly at all my dear,” said Mr. Fell, finally breaking their silence. 

Mrs. Jenkins smiled. “Ah, well, I haven’t told you the main part. Now, Mr. Fell, and I don’t know how much you know about the occult -” Both men remained expressionless, excluding Mr. Fell’s ever-present pleasant smile, “-but no human is meant to go out that way. I’m afraid that after their demise, the earl and his lover never left that cottage. Their presence is still there. Not as strong as some spirits, of course, we are in South Downs after all, but they can be quite conspicuous.” 

To her dismay, Mr. Fell’s smile had fallen completely, and he now looked quite concerned. His eyebrows were raised and his round nose was scrunched up. Mrs. Jenkins nearly cursed - she hadn’t meant to scare the only potential buyer she’d had in decades away. Usually Britons were quite enamoured with a bit of paranormal history, and it was considered a draw of the cottage rather than a repellant. Still, she was glad she had been honest. She would not want poor Mr. Fell to buy a house without knowing all of the risks. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, lad,” she said, leaning over to place her wrinkled hand over his manicured one, “My head has gone to the clouds, it seems. Don’t worry if you want to back out, I will completely understand -”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” To her great surprise, it was not Mr. Fell who had spoken, but his young man, who had not said more than a sullen ‘how do you do’ since entering her home. Even more shockingly, he was grinning, almost baring even, his sharp, gleaming teeth. His sunglasses had slid down his nose, and Mrs. Jenkins was sure the light was playing tricks on her mind, because his eyes almost looked to be a vibrant gold with black slits for pupils. Almost like...snake eyes. “It sounds heavenly. We’ll take it.”

\-------------

Nearly fifty miles away, on the same drizzly grey morning in Soho, London, another young-looking man was attempting to order a Darjeeling tea from Costa while fielding phone calls for his smallest brother, who had conveniently skipped town without taking care of any of his responsibilities. Said brother looked like a pre-teen, so most adults would have rolled their eyes but ultimately forgiven him for his wayward adventures. An absurd notion, because while the young-looking man’s ‘baby’ brother looked about seventeen, he was almost eighty-eight years old in reality and had been a babe for only ten of them. 

The young-looking man’s name was England, though he occasionally attempted to pass himself off as Britain or the United Kingdom. This attempt at deceit was appreciated by no one, least of all his town-skipping brother, but England very rarely considered what other people appreciated. 

Here however, at Costa, he was called ‘Arthur’. And he was getting rather short with the barista who was in charge of taking his order. 

“Yes, 2% is just fine, _thank you_ ”, he was saying for what felt like the third time. He pressed the _Ignore Call_ button on his flip phone yet again. Northern Ireland could deal with his own bloody bureaucracy when he came back. “And no sugar. Please.” 

“Of course, poppet,” his barista smiled with a flirty wink. England resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

He was used to being considered attractive by those who didn’t know him very well. He had a lean, athletic build, a long neck and a sharp, angular jaw. Despite his rather formidable eyebrows and the slight freckling of his nose, his face was pleasant, symmetrical, and lightly tanned (something he was very pleased with - it took until about the nineteenth century for him to stop burning like a lobster every time he left his chambers). His hair, once considered unfashionable (though this changed every few decades, and England really couldn’t be bothered to keep up with any sort of trends) was tousled and messy, the various shades of blonde lending it compelling character. 

But his most appealing feature, by far, were his eyes. People really seemed to love his stupid eyes. 

“So...Arthur,” the barista said, the vowels curling pleasantly on her tongue, “Do you happen to have a number to go with that name?” She smiled prettily while jotting down his order on a styrofoam cup. 

England didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m gay.” Not strictly false, though not strictly true, it was nevertheless England’s best excuse...until he was speaking to a man, wherein he rapidly became straight as an uncooked pasta noodle. 

“Oh,” the barista replied, pouting, “It seems all the fit ones are, these days…”

He smiled blandly at her as she rang up his order, then thanked her for her service. He rejected yet another of Northern Ireland’s calls. 

As he waited for his drink by the furthermost window, he thought quickly over his to-do list for that day. The prime-minister had meetings with the Russian cultural attache, the Bulgarian foreign minister, and some Japanese foreign dignitary, though for the life of him England could not remember what that meeting would be about. Thankfully, he’d done most of the leg-work for those meet-ups already; Japan had been especially helpful. England tugged uncomfortably at his collar. Perhaps he should get him a gift again this holiday season - their regular communications had halted rather jarringly in the aftermath of WWI, but surely enough time had passed…

His phone buzzed again. He scrunched his eyes closed, huffed out angrily, then opened them again to glare at the unfortunate N. Irish bureaucrat who had finally tested the last of England’s patience. Thankfully, caller ID saved him from a slightly embarrassing faux pas, because it flashed the label _America_. 

England quickly flipped his phone open. “America,” he said redundantly, “Hullo.” 

“ _Hello yourself,_ ” America replied, and England physically had to fight himself not to smile at the other nation’s voice. For the past few years he’d been operating in a dazed manner around America, and he absolutely refused to think about what it meant. And he refused to think about what America’s answering smiles and fond tone meant as well. “ _Am I interrupting anything?_ ”

“Only my quest for a bloody drink,” England muttered darkly, “Tea, before you ask. Though I wish it was stronger.”

“ _Poor England,_ ” America said, not sounding sorry at all. England could practically hear his shit-eating grin. “ _Fighting the masses for a caffeine fix._ ”

He was such an arsehole. England found his cheeks were warming pleasantly.

“Are you calling me with a purpose, or did you just want to give me an early morning headache?” 

America laughed. “ _Alright, you got me. We have a slight crisis on our hands._ ”

England’s eyes widened. “Wow. You could have led with that?” 

“ _Slight, I said. Keep up, eyebrows!_ ” Subconsciously, England’s hand drifted upwards to the offending facial features. “ _The case worker in charge of Hungary’s confidential files has gone missing. Her prime minister contacted my boss._ ” 

“Your boss?” England huffed, crossing an arm across his chest. He eyed his barista, who seemed to be moving exceptionally slow with his tea. Clearly, he should have just copped off with the bloody girl and gotten his drink in a reasonable amount of time. “Why is the Hungarian head of state calling _your_ boss? Germany’s going to be furious.” 

“ _Oh I know!_ ” America sounded delighted. _“Anyway. You’ll probably get an email in a minute, but I’m just giving you a heads up; we’re going to have a meeting about it, Hungary has to say what was in her file, where she last saw her caseworker, if our identities are in jeopardy, blah blah blah. The usual crapshoot. Such is the life of immortal nations doomed to roam the earth for eternity!”_

“Tell that to Rome,” England said drily. His tea was almost ready, at last - his barista was shoving the cap on it carelessly. He’d have to reinforce it. 

“ _You should request to host. Neutral ground and all that. I can come over a bit early, maybe stay with you instead of hunting down a hotel bargain in London town._ ”

“I wouldn’t mind,” England said, mentally cheering, “I’ll talk it over with the P.M.”

“ _Great! Keep me updated. I gotta run, that was my allotted five minutes of free time.”_

“You’re ridiculous,” England shook his head fondly. 

Just in time - a different barista raised his drink high and bellowed, “ARTHUR, Darjeeling, milk no sugar?” 

“I’ll call you later,” he said, hanging up without waiting for America’s responding goodbye. “Yes that’s me, thanks.” 

He pushed open the door with his side, cupping his drink with care. It warmed his palms even through the leather gloves he’d chosen to wear. He walked into the bitter chill of London’s fog, breathing in sharply. It likely wouldn’t snow for another two weeks, but nevertheless, England was always one for milder weather. Let it rain as often as God deemed appropriate, as long as the chill didn’t hang around past February. 

He frowned slightly, thinking of Hungary’s missing confidential documents. It would be a disaster, of course, if those were compromised. And it would be life-altering if they were leaked. He wasn’t sure how the general public would react to his existence, but knowing his citizens as well as he did, he’d likely get hanged and shot a few times before becoming the subject of celebrity tabloids and gossip. He shuttered - a fate worse than damnation, truly. 

He stopped suddenly, almost against his own volition, when he spotted a rather old building, seemingly on its last leg. It reminded England of the London of old, before everything had started modernizing, especially in Soho. It almost looked out of place, next to an artisanal cheese shop and a rather cosmopolitan looking adult store. The sign above, faded and peeling alarmingly, read _Fell’s Bookshop_. 

England hummed with interest. He’d been sure that he had seen every bookstore in the United Kingdom, let alone in Soho, but this one had seemingly escaped his notice. Deciding to risk his prime minister’s ire - foreign dignitaries were important of course, but there were few things England liked more than books - he walked up to the doorway and pushed at the entrance. 

It didn’t budge. 

Too late, England noticed the rather shabby sign posted at the window, which proclaimed the bookshop to be _closed for repairs_. 

“Hm,” England said, “Pity.” Shrugging, he continued on his way to the office, leaving the dusty bookstore to ominously loom. 

_\----_

“D’you ever feel like we’re...I dunno, forgetting something? Something big?” 

“No.” 

“Damn it, Adam, you always do this! Hear me out -” 

“Dunno why you’re always tryin’ to mess about, Wensleydale. You’ve been talkin’ about forgetting stuff for 14 years. Drink your wine.” 

“He’s right.” 

“Oh, not you too Brian…” 

“And if Pepper were here she’d agree! Something’s been...weird. But I don’t remember.” 

“Look you two, there’s nothin’ weird. No weird earthquakes, no -” 

“I’ve been feeling very spiritual lately. Far closer to God.” 

“...Since when do you believe in God, Wensleydale.” 

“Since a while ago. I dunno how to explain it. I feel...protected. Like someone is watching over me.” 

“...What’re they teachin’ you at that school?” 

“It’s bloody Cambridge, Adam, not _that school!_ ” 

“Well, I agree with Wensleydale. There’s something I’m forgetting, and I’ve been forgetting it for a while. But I don’t mind because I feel safe. Whatever it is. An abstract all-encompassing feeling of love. If that’s not God, what is? 

“Thank you, Brian!” 

“...’M thinkin’ I need more wine…” 

_\----_

“Haunted my eternally damned arse!” The young man with the sunglasses proclaimed two days later, shaking his fist at an ancient bit of carpeting that came with the cottage. It remained blissfully unaware. “Really, it is unbelievable that one cannot even find an honest realtor these days. We were promised haunted - I want my ghoul!” 

“For goodness sake, _Crowley_ ,” Mr. Ezra Fell, better known as Aziraphale, huffed, dragging a particularly heavy suitcase through the doorway of their minimally haunted cottage. “Will you please stop whinging, my dear, and help me bring the rest of these things in?” 

Crowley shrugged, tugging at his slim tie ever so slightly. Suddenly, all the luggage they had brought was sitting in a precarious pile in the middle of the room. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“Honestly. I meant the human way. It won’t do to have you miracle-ing everything all the time!” 

Crowley sneered. “You wanted help, angel, I helped you.” 

“What if somebody saw? Do you think it an ordinary occurrence, Crowley, for them? To see a curb full of boxes and materials suddenly evaporate away into nothing?” 

“Alright, I get your blessed point,” Crowley said, “But what’s done is done. No need to miracle them back, hm?” 

Aziraphale, secretly glad that he did not have to manually drag in any more of the heavy baggage inside, did not reply. Instead, he immediately made for one of the bigger boxes, the one that likely would have given Crowley the most trouble had he tried to lift it by hand. 

“Shame that Adam didn’t return my most valuable literature,” Aziraphale grumbled, pulling out a book delicately labeled _Where’s Waldo?_. “I’m never going to get another first edition of the _Bugger This For a Lark Bible_. And all of my Oscar Wilde literature was signed!” 

“If you liked Wilde so much, you should have bloody married him,” Crowley muttered bitterly. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Crude, as always my dear. Remind me why we decided to do this again?” 

“It was _your_ idea!” Crowley said, making his way over to the stylish leather sofa that seemed to have no business being in any building older than ten years. He fell into it, sighing, and putting his feet up without bothering to take off his snakeskin shoes (though this may have been because he wasn’t wearing shoes at all, but the jury was still out on that particular feature of Crowley’s body). “We couldn’t do anything in London anymore. Bloody Antichrist would be sensing our every move. So here we are, tempting old ladies into being terrible gossips.” 

“You really should leave poor old Mrs. Jenkins alone, dear boy,” Aziraphale frowned, “She’s getting on in her years, her heart can’t take so much excitement…” 

Crowley and Aziraphale never to used to hang around each other on a constant basis. Yes, they had both been assigned their posts on earth around the same time - six-thousand years ago, give or take a few centuries - but seeing as how they worked on the most opposing sides possible, they really had no reason to spend time together (especially when their official title for each other was still “the Enemy”). When they did, at least in the beginning, that time was spent trying to murde-discorporate each other as frequently as possible. Aziraphale tended to be the better fighter of the two, though Crowley’s subsequent guilt-inducing sessions were usually potent enough to keep the angel’s advantage to a minimum. 

(For yes, that was what they were - a demon and an angel, sent from the pits of Hell and pastures of Heaven respectively. Crowley was an angel too, once, before his penchant for hanging around the wrong people forced him to be solemnly dismissed. For a Fallen angel, he was not quite as wicked as someone like Satan or Beelzebub would have preferred - yes, he occasionally turned paint guns into real ones for amusement, but he also revived doves and saved books, though he tried not to dwell on that too often. Meanwhile, his angelic counterpart, while understandably virtuous in the realms of charity, courage, and faith, had some issues fighting off sins such as gluttony and being covetous. It would have amused Crowley, except it meant that Aziraphale was an expert at being an absolute prick when he felt like it.) 

However, ever since the two of them helped avert a near-Apocalypse (though the truth of the matter was their only role had been mild incompetence, whilst less supernatural forces did all the heavy lifting), they had found that they could not go back to their own lives as simply as they’d hoped. Adam, the aforementioned Antichrist, _really_ had not wanted the pair of them to return to their divine and damn meddling in human’s lives. One inconsequential traffic accident had earned Crowley a very stern lecture from an eleven-year-old back in 1991. 

So now, Crowley and Aziraphale, with nearly unlimited power and very little purpose for it, had decided to spend _all_ of their time together in an attempt to liven up their pointless existence. Thankfully neither heaven nor hell was paying very much attention to them at the moment, or Aziraphale would have very surely Fallen. And Crowley likely would have received a light sentence of eternal torture. Needless to say, it was in their best interests to lay low. 

None of these facts, however, detracted from the fact that when they were together, Aziraphale had a nasty propensity to boss Crowley around. 

And even worse, Crowley found himself obeying in some form every single time. He really needed to work on his demonic mojo before he was completely emasculated. 

_\----_

“Pepper. D’you think...what do you think it’s like, bein’ an angel of the Lord?” 

“Urgh, Adam. Is Brian feeding you that bullshit about Jesus and the seven dwarves as well? Don’t listen to ‘im, ‘e’s just tryin’ to freak you out.” 

“I...let’s say, hypothetically, they were real. They walked among us.” 

“I’m more inclined t’believe aliens walk among us than angels, but alright. They walk among us. So what?” 

“D’you think they’d ever want to be like us, like humans? They prolly can’t feel the way we do. They’d get lonely.” 

“Meh. They’ve got friends. Angel friends. Er.” 

“I imagine they’d be right bored. Angels can only feel love, hm? Nothing else? Rather dull if you ask me.” 

“Adam, do I look like I‘ve read the bloody Bible?” 

“But they’d prolly wanna stay immortal, though. They’re used to it. Freak them right out if that stopped.” 

“Bloody hell, I need more t’drink if you’re going to keep blithering. Where’re Brian and Wensleydale?” 

“...Is there something else...here? Something else that’s immortal? Objectively I don’t think so...but…” 

“That’s it, I‘m cutting you off. Hand over the ale and no one gets hurt.” 

_\----_

England and America were at a coffee shop somewhere near Regent’s Park, enjoying a chai and a mocha respectively, thinking up creative punishments for Hungary’s entire parliamentary cabinet. 

“I mean, our justification is that they couldn’t even keep the existence of their immortal representative under wraps,” England was saying, stirring his drink methodically, “How are they going to keep our state secrets? A ridiculous state of affairs, really.” 

“Well, we don’t even know if Hungary’s identity is leaked,” America pointed out diplomatically. “Could be her case worker just up and died. They usually don’t have a lot of family or friends, the poor bastards, it would take awhile for them to be missed.” 

“Hm,” England hummed in agreement, “Astute observation, America.” 

America preened. “Thank you!” 

“Let’s hope you’re right, in any case,” England continued, “I should hate to think what would become of us if we were found out.” 

England’s brother, Scotland (England had three brothers, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, and occasionally had four when Ireland* could be arsed to recognize their familial connection) was once “found out”, as it were, in the tenth century. Villagers burnt him at the stake despite his protests that he was a manifestation of their patriotism and national identity. After a while, he got bored, pretended to burn alive, then sat at a tavern with England three hours later complaining about ungrateful citizens. England shuttered; Britons had gotten far more creative in the following years. He didn’t dare think what they’d do to him now… 

America shrugged. He never seemed half as worried about anything as England did. “Let them find out, whatever. We’ll just turn it into a reality show.” 

“Oh god, I couldn’t think of a worse punishment,” England groaned. 

“Do your people have any leads?” 

England’s people were, of course, anyone whose allegiance was to the United Kingdom - he had a lot of people. Perhaps not as much as America, but certainly nothing to scoff at. 

“None,” England shrugged, “It seems he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” 

“I always thought Hungary’s system of hierarchy was stupid,” America said, “A goddamn case worker? The only one who knows of _my_ existence is my boss. Everyone else is on a need-to-know.” 

“Congratulations, by the way, er.” England said carefully, “Reelection. Erm, good for him. Still a Republican, is he?” 

America immediately acquired a pained expression, the one he adopted any time someone brought up his domestic politics. “Yes. Uh, I’ll tell him. I’m, ah, sure he will appreciate it.” 

They both knew the president would not. England shuffled awkwardly. 

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he finally said, “Let’s discuss war plans, yes?” 

“Ah, yeah!” America exclaimed, relaxing immediately. To England’s dismay, war always seemed to be America’s cup of tea. “I’ve got some suggestions for your lot. Battle strategies. Very hush-hush, we’d be forever grateful if you could bring it up to your prime minister privately.” 

_\----_

“Adam, stop it - you’re quite drunk already.” 

“‘M just ‘appy all four of us are finally in the same place! Iss been ages!” 

“So you’ve said. Five times.” 

“Let him have his fun, Wensleydale! Pass me the whiskey, Adam, there’s a lad.” 

“Little boys and their little drinks. Whatever shall I do with you all?” 

“...Why’re you annu-non-announ-pronouncing errything like th’t, Pepper? Y’sound weird.” 

“And _you_ started drinking without us. Not sporting of you at all, Adam.” 

“...’ve been thinking.” 

“You should’ve left that to Mr. Cambridge over ‘ere.” 

“Hey!” 

“Been thinking about...the angels…” 

“Oh, Merlin’s beard. Not this bloody mythology again.” 

“S’not right. He deserves bettah, the poor b’stard…” 

“Okay, so the hypothetical angels are now just one poor bastard of an angel.” 

“S’not right…” 

“Alright, you lug. Brian, Wensley, help me prop him up! You stupid boy, you’ve gone and drunk yourself silly, now we can’t even bloody talk with you. Up you get, time for bed.” 

“S….not…” 

And several hundred miles away from lower Tadfield, in South Downs and London respectively, something very, very unfortunate took place. It was a terrible idea to get the Antichrist drunk, after all. 

_\-------_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and Crowley get to know each other. America and Aziraphale clash.

England woke up with a terrible crick in his neck. 

He groaned noisily. He and America had stayed up rather late last night discussing “business” and avoiding their respective supervisors. America was rather good at it - since his president was the only one who actually knew what he was, he very easily managed to outmaneuver his generals and staffers, claiming “top secret important business” whenever they attempted to get his aid with something. The American president had made sure that America’s rank within the bureaucratic system was well respected. 

England was not so lucky. 

Though his own heads of state, the queen and the prime minister, were the only ones who knew of his existence, they both agreed that “keeping him humble” was the only logical method of using his skill. In the past few decades, he’d served as a school teacher, a traffic warden, and a ‘sanitation specialist’ (garbage man). His most recent prime minister had allowed him to work on policy matters again, but only as a junior staffer. Meaning that almost everyone in the prime minister’s cabinet was his boss. It was enough to drive an immortal nation insane. 

Thankfully, however, when another nation visited, England was more or less allowed to operate with the status of a top government official. So he and America, claiming to have “top secret business”, pissed off and went drinking at England’s local pub. They made it home around three am, though England’s memory was fuzzy, and he felt that he passed out on or somewhere near his bed. 

The crick in the neck was, therefore, somewhat expected. However, he shockingly did not feel hungover. That is, the usual headache and nausea were missing. Yet, when he tried to get up he felt...heavy, somehow. Off balance. 

He reached up to rub his eyes, attempting to ward off his grogginess. It felt like he was wearing some sort of silk pajamas - nice of America, then, to help him change because England certainly was not up to the task last night. England opened his eyes, blinking rapidly.

The first thing he noticed were his hands. His fingers were...thick. And far shorter than they should have been. In far better condition too, as if they were meticulously taken care of by a manicurist every week. He gulped.

The sheets he was covered in were not his. The quilt was an absurd tartan pattern, which clashed quite horribly with the down sheets of the strange bed. 

England remained lying down, attempting not to slip into panic mode. Something was obviously wrong. His hands were plump, his bed was strange, and he really _did_ feel very odd.

He noticed a mirror in the corner of the room (a room that he absolutely did not recognize but was trying very hard not to acknowledge that fact), facing slightly away from him. He breathed in deeply, slowly but surely willing himself to sit up, roll out of the bed, and go see if there was anything else wrong with him, other than his hands.

During this process, England attempted to suss out where he was located. He, along with every anthropomorphic nation in existence, had the innate ability to immediately identify where he was as long as he was on his own soil. It made sense, of course - the land was an extension of himself. He’d once had his arm torn off and entrails dragged through the mud during the Norman invasion, and he’d _still_ been able to sense that that stupid French frog was dragging him through the village of Camden. 

But now, when he attempted this, the only sense his body gave him was...Earth.

England frowned deeply and tried again.

Still Earth.

He sat up in pure agitation. “Of course I’m on bloody earth! Where the hell would I be then, Jupiter’s moons?!” 

He attempted to ignore the fact that his voice was at least two octaves higher than usual. And that he’d gotten an inkling of a headache when he’d said ‘hell’.

Propelling himself out of the bed in desperation, England decided that the only solution to whatever was going on was to see the damage in full. It wouldn’t do to dither - best see everything all at once, like ripping off a band-aid. He tried not to pay any close attention to his surroundings, lest he become too overwhelmed. He ran in front of the mirror and grabbed at its sides.

“Oh…” he said, almost whispering, “Oh...my...oh my god.” The whisper was lessening. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking _Christ_. What the bloody fucking HELL IS THIS, WHAT THE _ACTUAL GODDAMN FUCKING SHIT IS -_ ” 

He looked nothing like himself. Gone were the eyebrows, the freckles, the jawline. He stared, wide-eyed, at his reflection, powerless to stop the obscenities spilling from his mouth. 

His reflection showed a man who couldn’t possibly be England. He looked around thirty-five, perhaps older, with wide blue eyes and a straight nose. He was blonde, sure, but a far brighter blonde than England had ever achieved, with straight teeth and a tall stature. 

But there was only one feature of his new body that truly registered in England’s mind. 

“Dear Lord,” England said, feeling very faint, “I-I...I’m fat! I’m bloody huge!” He grabbed at the belly that protruded over his waistband, “Oh gods on high, I’m fucking _fat_ -” 

It should be noted, for the sake of proper visualization, that England’s new body was not fat. Certainly plump, and perhaps even chubby. But those that had met with the original owner of the body never got the impression that he was anything but a somewhat heavyset gentleman with a terrible fashion sense. But perhaps England could be forgiven for his overreaction - he was experiencing something traumatic, after all. And on a less frantic note, he had never been over one-hundred and seventy pounds in his life. 

“What the hel- _what_ is going on?!” England whirled around frantically, facing the doorway he’d ignored earlier. A young dark-haired man had appeared, looking rather harried, and leaning into the room. “Angel, why are you screaming? Are you trying to wake all the bloody neighborhood animals?” 

Angel. Whatever body England was in, it had a boyfriend. Perfect. England tried to play it cool. It likely wouldn’t end well if this person’s boyfriend thought he needed to be committed to the psych ward. 

Still, he wasn’t one hundred percent in control of himself. While he managed not to scream _I am England a personified nation and I am in some stranger’s body and am certainly not your boyfriend so piss off while I figure my shit out_ , he still could not prevent his next statement.

“I-I’m fat!” he said, nearly in tears. The dark-haired boyfriend looked shocked. “Christ, I can’t believe it - look at my arse!” He turned back to the mirror, twisting so he could get a better look at the offending body part. “Look. At. My. Arse. It’s absolutely enormous!”

The boyfriend had walked in and was standing by England now, looking rather thunderstruck. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, England realized, though he didn’t dwell too much on that discovery. Distantly, England thought the man who the body belonged to was very lucky - perhaps he had a shining personality, or a fat wallet, to attract such a handsome boy-toy. 

“Ngk,” the boyfriend attempted to express something, but couldn’t quite get it out. He was rather flushed. 

“How am I going to work off all this bloody fat? It’s everywhere; dear god, look at my thighs. Blimey. And my arse is a bloody tragedy. It’s like the Titanic, in size, and in genre.” 

“Azeerafail…” the boyfriend began to say.

“Bless you,” England replied unthinkingly. He missed the dark haired man’s stunned look. “Perhaps I’ll just eat kale for a month.” 

“Azeerafail!” Even without being able to see his eyes, England could tell the boyfriend was distressed. He also realized, with a sinking heart, that what he’d thought was a sneeze was actually his new body’s name. “What’s gotten into you?” 

England was not handling this well. He couldn’t have this man’s significant other suspicious - he clearly needed to reign it in, despite his very strong feelings on the matter. 

“I, er,” he began eloquently, “I suppose I’m feeling...insecure. You know. I mean...here _you_ are, looking slim as a dietitian's daughter, and I look like I participated in a pastry-eating competition and won.” He grabbed at his belly again. It was almost fascinating - he’d never been able to gain weight, even when it had been the height of beauty standards. In fact, this body reminded him very much of the body type he’d so dearly dreamed of during the Renaissance. 

The boyfriend was not providing much in the way of moral support. Behind his sunglasses he was nearly catatonic. England felt himself calm down; he could do this. He could pretend to be this person’s significant other for a second, then go figure out where he was (at least he was still in Britain - the boyfriend’s posh accent confirmed that much), and finally make his way to London. Simple. 

“Erm, I feel better now.” He turned to face the boyfriend - an annoying way to refer to a person, really. He’d need his name. “Thanks for listening. I’m sorry if I, er, freaked you out.” He figured he needed to demonstrate some physical affection - it was clear that Azierafayl was usually the instigator in that regard. He walked over to the boyfriend and wrapped his arms around his hips, pulling him close. “I won’t do it again...you. Darling. Erm, thanks for listening.” 

The boyfriend was rather stiff in his arms. England rolled his eyes; clearly, Azeerafeel kept him around as eye candy and nothing else. 

The boyfriend mumbled something under his breath. England pulled away, dropping his (now plump) arms to his sides. “What was that...poppet?” 

The boyfriend swallowed. “I don’t think your arse is fat,” he said, slightly louder. He resolutely did not look away from England’s face. Then, as if the compliment physically hurt him, he quickly added, “But the rest of you certainly is. All of those cakes had to go somewhere, angel, I’ve been telling you for millennia. Any more weight on that belly of yours and you won’t be able to fit through the pearly gates.” 

England thought that to be a rather morbid statement until he noticed that the room they were standing in was filled with a conservative estimate of seventy bibles. Fanatics, then. Anglican devotees. Mr. Sunglasses did not seem the type, but then again, it wasn’t as if they wore uniforms these days. 

Ugh. Mr. Sunglasses. England needed to figure out a name. 

He bet on dumb luck. 

“So,” he said conversationally in his new (and, though he would never admit it, rather melodious) voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever asked. How _do_ you spell your name?” 

The boyfriend blinked. “Er. The new one? In English?”

So they spoke another language. England would have to steer clear of those waters. “Ah, yes, of course!” 

To his utter surprise, the boyfriend did not seem particularly bewildered by this request. “C-R-O-W-L-E-Y.” he recited dully. “Simple enough. Dunno why Hastur has so much bloody trouble.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” England exclaimed almost giddily. He’d gotten a name! Now he could flee and make it seem somewhat natural, “Um...because...Hastahr is quite dim. Mm hm. Crowley dear, do you happen to have keys to our car?” 

\-----

Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever woken up in such pain. 

He’d been in pain, of course. Live for six millennia, and you’d receive almost every kind of wound conceivable. Occasionally he’d felt so much pain that he’d died, which of course required returning to heaven, filling out all manner of paperwork, then waiting patiently as Gabriel got off his lazy arse and went to harass the angelic resources department on his behalf. Still, even death blows only ever hurt momentarily, as Aziraphale was a pansy who would miracle any minor ache away with ease. 

However, he was finding this searing headache difficult to manage. 

“Hrmph,” he groaned, attempting to ignore the pain and failing miserably. Even worse, as he got up, his stomach began churning dangerously in a way he’d only experienced once, when he’d tried flying after half a bottle of wine. To his great distress, he couldn’t miracle that away either. Instead he clutched at his stomach and realized that he had never been so thin in his life.

Unlike England, Aziraphale was no stranger to body switching or possession. In fact, a rather memorable day in 1990 was spent in the body of an aging psychic wearing a floral dress. However, it only occurred when something happened to his corporal form, which was not good news. He had fallen asleep, one of the rare times he did, and clearly, Crowley had been nursing some sort of hidden grudge and killed him on the spot. Or Mrs. Jenkins had figured the two of them out, but had wrongly assumed that Aziraphale was the demon (Aziraphale wasn’t sure what exactly it was about himself, but people never seemed to trust he had good intentions - laughably enough, they seemed to trust Crowley just fine until the demon secured their souls for hell for all eternity). OR the ghoul Crowley had so easily dismissed had taken issue with the way Aziraphale had rearranged the living room. Either way, this was decidedly Not Good. 

He stood up slowly, taking care not to upset his stomach any further. He took a fervent look around the flat; he seemed to be in an average enough bedroom, modern (Crowley would approve) but looking far more lived-in than any bedroom he or Crowley had ever inhabited. There were some very interesting paintings on the wall, looking almost like original Turners, but Aziraphale forced himself to ignore them and go into the small bathroom he’d finally spotted. Unfortunately, having an all-human body meant having all the bodily functions that came along with it. 

After sprucing himself up, he felt marginally better. He finally gathered up the courage to look at his reflection in the mirror closely.

His jaw dropped. 

It should be said that vanity was not a positive trait for an angel, and Aziraphale had never particularly cared how he looked. It wasn’t his job, and he left all the preening and obsessing over looks to Crowley. But in this body, for once, he looked arguably _better_ than Crowley. He was in shape! His face was nice! Yes, his eyebrows were bewilderingly thick, but surely they could be plucked! And his eyes were a steely _green_. 

Aziraphale wondered briefly if heaven would let him keep the form, but quickly snapped himself out of it. He was well aware that he already flirted with the sins of gluttony and covetousness, it wouldn’t do to add vanity as well. 

“England!” he heard someone call suddenly, and stiffened. “England! Are you awake yet? Your boss is wondering where you are - I told him we were finishing up from yesterday. You’re welcome!” 

Well, bugger. He wasn’t alone. It sounded like a male voice - friend? Brother? Lover? Aziraphale couldn’t be sure, of course, but he’d have to avoid whoever it was until he could sort himself out because, distressingly enough, he couldn’t seem to leave this body as easily as he usually could when his original body was discorporated. In fact, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t feel any of the usual divine energy that flowed through him…

“England,” of course, while Aziraphale had sat there dawdling, the other man had found him. And Aziraphale had left the bathroom door open, so the man invited himself to lean against the doorway. “Whoo, dude. You look like shit.” 

Aziraphale begged to differ, but quickly realized there was no point. The man was American. 

“Erm,” Aziraphale began, “Hello...you.” He just realized the bespectacled man had been calling him ‘England’. What an odd and utilitarian name. And he’d always thought Aziraphale, Eternal Servent of God, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Leading Principality of the Mortal Realm etc. etc., had been eccentric. But at least his Father had not thought it appropriate to name a blessed Child after a landmass. 

The other man raised an eyebrow. “And now you’re sounding a little odd. Are you alright?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m just feeling a little under the weather, my dear. With a bit of tea, I should be -”

But he wasn’t able to finish his sentence because the man suddenly pounced on him with strength more suited to the Archangel Michael than a mere mortal. He crushed Aziraphale’s throat beneath one palm, and Aziraphale found he was completely incapacitated. His breath was coming up short, which was mostly disturbing because Aziraphale had never particularly needed to breathe before. 

“'My dear’?” the man hissed. And, to Aziraphale’s shock, the man unholstered a gun from his belt.

_Americans,_ thought Aziraphale, before remembering that this body was likely not as durable as his old one. 

“Oh, erm…” Aziraphale choked out.

“Who are you? What have you done with England?!” the man was saying, “Who are you with? China? The FSB?” 

Aziraphale needed to act fast. Clearly, these men were more important, or at least, a good deal more important that Aziraphale’s usual target possessions. And one of them had a CIA issue gun. He’d have to convince this rather zealous young man that his friend was in no danger. First order of business - figure out the man’s name before he completely crushed the ‘England’s’ windpipe. He decided to take a chance - yes, there was a possibility that England’s name was given to him by his good mother with waylaid intentions, but there was also a chance…

“A-America,” Aziraphale managed to say, “Y-can’t you take a joke anymore, _my dear_?” He was jeering. This had better work. 

He was grateful when he felt the other man’s strong grasp loosen. He continued, “You’ve become so paranoid! Did you think that, er, China cloned me or some such thing?”

“He has the technology,” ‘America’ answered, which was news to Aziraphale. He’d also never heard of someone referring to the nation of China as a ‘he’ before. “And you’re talking super fancy. Normally you sound a little less Downton Abbey.” 

The reference completely flew over Aziraphale’s head. “Let me down now, dea-erm, America. I can’t believe you’ve pulled a gun on me, honestly.” This was how humans reacted to their friends threatening their lives, yes?

America shrugged. “Wouldn’t have hurt you anyway,” he said dismissively, finally dropping Aziraphale back down to the floor. Aziraphale tried not to fall over. “‘My dear’. Seriously, England, you scared the shit out of me. Last time you called me that I was a colony, and you were trying to wheedle out more textiles.” 

That sentence made about zero percent sense to Aziraphale, but he quickly realized that these humans likely spoke in complete code. Their jobs seemed to be tied to government agencies - clearly, their names were not actually ‘England’ or ‘America’, they were just aliases. The angel decided to go with the flow until he could find some time for a solo sojourn into heaven. Surely one of the angels would help him right this strange situation.

“You were such a...fussy colony,” Aziraphale said, feeling ridiculous. “Right. You said we had, er, work?” 

The American left him alone to get ready, shouting that they only had about twenty minutes to do so. Aziraphale gulped, muttered out some reply about being just a second, and immediately ran into the bedroom to find a picture of England in his every-day attire, as to not attract the suspicion of the _armed maniac residing in the flat_. 

He found England’s flip phone charging on the cramped desk, and sighed in relief when he saw it was equipped with a camera. He quickly navigated to the main menu - the few pictures on the phone were small and grainy, but they showed England wearing a suit that reminded Aziraphale very much of Crowley’s usual get-up, shoes that seemed average and clean, and tousled hair that did not look much different than Aziraphale’s current bed-head. Thank goodness for that - the angel did not think he was in the proper state of mind to learn how to style a stranger’s hair this morning. 

He struggled into the first suit he found (easier said than done - Aziraphale had not dressed himself the human way in centuries) and took care to brush his teeth and put on deodorant. As an afterthought, he put on cologne and prayed that it had been the proper amount.

“Right!” he said, coming down the stairs. The American man was lurking idly by the door, winter jacket already zipped up. Aziraphale spotted a black trench coat that was hung on a rack. He pocketed the wallet he saw on a table he passed, remembering at the last possible moment that humans considered those important. “I-I think we’ve got everything. Shall we go?” 

America shrugged. “You’re driving. I’ll follow your lead.”

Aziraphale gulped.

One of the nice things about being...acquaintances with Crowley was that Aziraphale never had to drive. Ever. He realized that in the modern world, there had to be a more efficient means of transportation. Horse-pulled carriages would simply no longer do. And while Aziraphale was more technologically capable than other supernatural beings, his relationship with Crowley meant a ride was available any time he truly needed it.

All of this was to say, Aziraphale had no idea how to drive a car.

“Er,” he began, suddenly struggling to put his coat on. He was in a bind. Yes, America might become suspicious again if ‘England’ claimed he could not drive for whatever reason, and asked America to do it instead. However, he surely would be more suspicious if Aziraphale took the wheel and promptly crashed their car into the nearest wall. “Uuugh. I’m feeling rather queasy still, I’m afraid.” He put his hand to his forehead dramatically. One could say lying was not Aziraphale’s forte. 

America, however, was not known for being observant. “Really?” he asked, jovially. “I would think a nice gun to your face would pick you right up!”

He was joking, right? “Surprisingly not,” Aziraphale grumbled, finding it far easier to be sarcastic in this body that he had in his own. “I feel revolting, actually. Perhaps you can drive.”

America turned to him, looking stunned. Aziraphale quickly pushed at the front door, determined to get outside where the other man could not so easily flaunt his monstrous strength. “D-don’t get me wrong. I don’t actually _want_ you to drive or anything. I just don’t trust myself this morning, and I figure you can’t handle yourself, er, once?” 

America’s shock was not abating. However, he did not reach for the gun, so Aziraphale considered the situation a win. 

“Uh, wow. How hungover are you? I thought we went pretty easy last night,” America said, “I was trying to respect your old-man stamina. We went your pace.”

_Old man?_ Aziraphale thought deliriously. The body he was in could not be physically older than twenty-three. But his headache worsened at the thought, so he stopped dwelling on it. 

Thankfully, however, America did not put up much more of a fuss. They made their way down to an underground garage, something even Aziraphale recognized as excessively posh, and quickly located one of the ten cars carefully parked there. It was an original Aston Martin DB5, shiny and dark blue, one of England’s few possessions that America openly admired. Had Crowley seen it, he would have marveled at its pristine condition and at England’s mechanical prowess. As it was, Aziraphale thought it was rather squat, and dumped himself in the passenger seat without ceremony. 

“Never thought I’d see the day you let me drive this baby,” America was grinning, all of his teeth in full, shiny display. “I haven’t driven any of your cars since the fifties. You stingy bastard.” 

Since the fifties. Good heavens, Aziraphale was already exhausted by the coded language. He put his hand to his forehead and moaned convincingly. Thankfully for him, England was a dramatic creature, and the action did not come off as too out of character. 

“Speaking of which, I got a new Cadillac,” America continued, seemingly oblivious to Aziraphale’s attempts to end the conversation. He put the car into gear and Aziraphale hoped, rather belatedly, that the bespectacled man realized that in the United Kingdom, one drove on the left side of the road. “I got a new Ford, too, but I know that kind of thing never falls under your area of interest. You really should branch out, England, you come off as very snobby.” He threw Aziraphale a smirk. 

“...Nothing wrong with an appreciation for style.” Aziraphale said, at somewhat of a loss. He vaguely recognized the gibberish as car names, but it was where his expertise ended. America’s smile fell slightly.

“Wow, you really aren’t very talkative today,” he said, “Are you sick? Are you pretending you’re upset about the gun? Come on, who knows what the others are capable of! And China…” Here, America gulped and looked abashed. Not that Aziraphale, in his mild continuous panic, noticed. “China has made it pretty obvious that he sees you as a vulnerability of mine. S-silly, huh?” 

America was completely flushed now, staring steadfastly ahead at the road. His grip was tight on the wheel. Aziraphale noticed none of this, of course. Instead, he was realizing something very disturbing - not only was he missing the divine presence that he usually carried at all times, but he could not Feel his Father’s Love. 

It felt like missing part of his heart, or soul. He suddenly felt very cold. Despite his spotty history, Heaven had never cut him off completely before. They’d often rolled their eyes, and made it very clear that they did not appreciate Aziraphale’s cavalier attitude toward the fulfillment of the Divine Plan, but they’d never isolated him. For the first time since the time of Creation, Aziraphale felt well and truly lost. 

“Silly. Yes,” he said coldly, missing America’s wounded glance. 

He was grateful for the silence the rest of the ride. 

\------------

England felt very peculiar. 

He hadn’t noticed before. Mostly because before he was in a state of full panic. Likely the only reason he hadn’t passed out in shock was that as an immortal nation, he’d seen his fair share of the bizarre. Nothing quite as bizarre as waking up trapped in the body of a chubby bibliophile, but admittedly that was very hard to beat. 

After panic came planning. England figured his first order of business was getting back to London. There, he could contact his boss, or Scotland. Maybe even America, if he was still hanging around England’s flat. He was a convincing enough speaker; surely he’d persuade all of them he was the _real_ England. Perhaps he’d even find his normal body, and figure out how to reverse the peculiarity that had landed him here. 

This was all, of course, easier said than done. His plan had gone awry immediately, when he’d suggested to Asirafil’s boyfriend that he’d need to drive their car down to London. Crowley had thrown such an incredible fit over the idea that England, desperate for a way to stop the shrieks, hurriedly reassured Crowley that he’d misspoken, that, of course, he’d meant that _Crowley_ should drive him to London. This set off another argument. Apparently Crowley had been nursing some budding resentment over the fact that Azihrifyel had been demanding lately and insensitive to Crowley’s schedule of priorities. A regular person in England’s position perhaps would have allowed Crowley to vent, reassured him that they’d work hard to do better, then attempt to move on. But England’s first instinct was always to fight. The resulting screaming match lasted long into the afternoon. 

Now, they were sitting in Crowley’s Bentley, making their way down the A3 at a nearly impossible speed. For a while, England had felt rather smug for winning his argument. This feeling had evaporated quickly when Crowley started driving at 125mph in somewhat congested traffic. The man knew about petty revenge, it seemed. 

After a while of driving in terse silence, England thought he was getting motion sickness from the jerky turns, but the feeling refused to abate even when Crowley dug some empathy up from his shriveled black heart and started driving smoothly. And after a while, England discovered that the feeling was somewhat familiar.

It was what he’d felt during The Great War, then the Second World War, when his citizens had been fighting for him just as viciously as they’d been fighting for themselves. It was what he felt when someone unironically sang _God Save the Queen_. It humbled him, and gave him hope. 

But right now it was overwhelming and made him feel slightly ill. 

“Uggghh,” he groaned, breaking the tense silence. Crowley looked over at him in bewilderment. 

“Azyraphayle?” he said steadily, “You’re looking peckish, angel. Didn’t meet your pastry quota for the day?” 

“Are you implying something?” England hissed. His brief displeasure with Crowley worsened his aches almost immediately. In fact, he found any major expression of distaste and negativity made him unwell. When he’d cursed up a storm a few hours ago, he’d gotten such a migraine that he’d nearly collapsed on a hideous tartan couch shoved in the corner of Crowley’s living room. He’d also noticed these aches tended to triple specifically when he said _hell_. He’d had no idea what to do with this information, as every hypothesis he came up with for why this was became more ridiculous than the next. Instead, he’d tried to curb his style of rhetoric. It was not going well. And to make matters worse, every time he insulted Crowley his body seemed to protest something vicious. It wasn’t quite as potent as the ‘hell pains’, but it was bloody annoying, especially because Crowley deserved every reproach England could come up with. 

Right now, for instance, he was scowling. This marred his attractive features which, in England’s opinion, were Crowley’s only positive traits. 

“What has you in such a snit, angel?” Crowley muttered darkly, “Upstairs finally find out you’re more of a glutton than the lowest denizens of the Dys?” 

This was another irritating thing Crowley did. Almost every other sentence out of his mouth was something vaguely biblical. It wasn’t a topic that interested England very much lately - if pushed, the Briton would mutter something about being a serious Anglican before going to drown himself in lager on Easter. 

“No,” England ground out, “They found out you’re a complete cu—“ 

He couldn’t even get the word out. He was immediately flooded with a foreign sense of shame the likes he had not felt for at least centuries, since he himself had been devout. He purged the thought from his mind immediately, doing his best to contain his suddenly shallow breathing. The _feeling_ was gone, for the moment. 

Crowley was eyeing him, an eyebrow raised behind the infernal dark glasses. “I’m a complete...what?” 

“Cad,” England managed to gasp out, “And a snake.” To his surprise, Crowley laughed heartily at that statement.

“Well, angel, if they still hadn’t figured out that one, you’d be in _very_ big trouble, yesss?” His last word was hissed. Perhaps it was supposed to be attractive, but England found it creepy and slightly nauseating. “What is it, then? Why are you acting so strange?” 

“Uuuh…” England began, attempting to find a universal factor of distress, “Work.” 

“Upstairs it is, then,” Crowley said, and England barely restrained his urge to strangle the dark haired man. “Did they contact you? When?”

“Er, sure. Yes, they did - yesterday.” 

To England’s dismay, Crowley almost swerved off-course into a rather flimsy BMW. England shrieked in surprise, and both cars escaped vehicle manslaughter only by some miraculous gift of God. England whirled around to face Crowley, quite ready to shout himself hoarse, but to his surprise, the other man looked livid. 

“Yesterday, and you declined to _share_ that with me!?” Crowley shouted, gripping at his steering wheel harshly. England, who was very used to people shouting at him and very good at waving them off, was surprised to find himself a trifle frightened. “What in the name of Manchester is wrong with you, Aziraphale? Why would you hide something like that?”

England shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, I…er, I forgot to—“

“YOU FORGOT?!” If possible, Crowley sounded even angrier. “You bloody _forgot_?! You managed to remember to nag me seven times about the books you left in the shop, you remember to _force me to get them for you_ , you remember to make me go out again and find your ruddy specialty chai, _in the rain_ , insisting that I don’t just miracle it in, and in between all of that you couldn’t find a moment to slip in that you’ve been bloody contacted?” 

England shuffled uneasily. On one hand, he was very lost for context and really didn’t know what to say.

On the other hand, he’d finally learned something to his advantage - Crowley was well and truly _whipped_. 

“I-I apologize, my dear,” he said slowly, trying his luck. He nearly grinned when Crowley almost immediately looked away, pinking slightly. “I really wasn’t thinking. I was so preoccupied with the, em...books?” 

“Those books will be the end of you, Aziyrafayle,” Crowley said. And did not shout. England mentally cheered. “The thing we’ve been waiting for for more than a decade finally happens, and you’re still thinking of the bloody books.” 

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you,” England said, gently rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. He delighted in Crowley’s ensuing flush, and audible gulp. Oh, but they were such an adorable, proper English couple!

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works since Christmas. I thought I could do a one-shot, but it became so long that I knew I had to give up at some point. Most of it is written already - I'm just struggling with the middle and the end, no pressure.


End file.
